


trying to stay in touch with (anything i'm still in touch with)

by thirteenghosts (newsbypostcard)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/thirteenghosts
Summary: He watches his own metal fingers tracing lines down his forearm, as they scan back up again and into his palm. He rests his fingers where Steve always did when he was guiding Bucky’s hand to some part of his body, then slides them back down again. Those lingering touches, wending over sinew and vein.Then it hits him. Steve won't do that again.





	trying to stay in touch with (anything i'm still in touch with)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [пытаясь держаться (за что угодно)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15361440) by [Christoph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christoph/pseuds/Christoph), [fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018/pseuds/fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018)



> This is being published five months before Infinity War so is obviously speculative. Please heed **major character death** warning. (eta: I am delighted to move this to my alt pseud where canon goes to die.)
> 
> Title is from "Empire Line" by The National. An earlier draft of this fic was posted on [tumblr](http://newsbypostcard.tumblr.com/post/168084307596/after-the-battles-done-sam-and-natasha-let-bucky).

  


  


After the battle, Sam and Natasha let Bucky hang around, like he’s always been part of their crew. Bucky is thankful; he's even relieved. Normally he’d isolate himself regardless of the atmosphere, but since Steve...

Well. It’s nice to be around others that loved him.

Small talk comes easier than Bucky expected, almost as though Steve was still hanging around. He'd have bound them together if he was alive; if they're bound together now, Bucky can't help but think Steve's somehow to blame. After all the magic he’s seen this week, it’s not so absurd a concept—Steve’s spirit wouldn’t give up so easy, even if his body was down for the count. 

For the first time in a long, long time, Bucky finds he's entertaining the idea of an afterlife. He takes the ease as a parting gift either way. Natasha sits with him. Bucky likes that. They pass the time in silence together and stare at nothing, occasionally sharing anecdotes. Sometimes they're of Steve and sometimes they're not; sometimes they just talk about Russia. Bucky tells her a little about his Soviet Union days, and they laugh a little; it’s not really funny, but it feels good anyway. Seems to clear something out of his chest he hadn’t known was there. 

Sam makes a little more conversation about _the moment_. Bucky can handle that, for the most part. He wonders if he’s still a bit in shock. It’s been days since—well— _since,_ but he still hasn’t wept; hasn’t reacted in any significant way. He’s heard Sam and Natasha muttering to each other about Bucky's overall lack of reaction and he thinks they’re probably waiting for the ball to drop. 

Frankly, so is he. Even Bucky isn’t sure of what's going on. He knows Steve is gone. There’s no denial, no question in his mind. He thinks of the fact of his goneness and knows that it's true.

It’s just—the spirit thing. He can’t shake that damned idea. Sam hasn’t snapped at him in a matter of days, so Steve’s gotta be around and doing something. Right? He's doing something to all of them, making them get along, preventing them from anger or blame. He's preventing the feelings they’re supposed to feel. He's gotta be. There's no other explanation.

Of course, he can't be. Steve’s not really there. It’s an irrational idea, one Bucky doesn't believe in. He’s just in shock.

Sam nods at him over breakfast once. Bucky looks up, abrupt. Guess he’d been spacing out without really knowing it.

“How d’you like it?” Sam asks, gesturing to his arm. “Looks nice." 

"Not bad, huh?" 

"Seems like it doesn’t hit as hard.”

“Ah—you're not wrong. It’s a … subtle difference.” He’d had this same conversation with Steve six days ago. “My fighting style is pretty offensive. One hit doesn’t always do it anymore.” He shrugs. “I’m better with a gun, anyway.”

“Hear that,” says Sam. “Always felt this pressure to use my fists just because Mr. Red-White-and-Blue couldn’t do something if it wasn’t hand-to-hand.”

“Ah, Wilson. You can’t let him push you around like that.”

Sam clenches his jaw, blessedly ignores the present tense. “He didn’t, really. That’s on me. Trying to live up to a name I don’t even want for myself.”

“But your instincts are good. You're adept both ways. Fight from the heart. Steve always did.”

He gets the tense right this time, and Sam almost smiles, as though Steve had said it to him himself. Bucky nearly asks him if he feels it, too, feels Steve in the room—but he gets a grip on himself in time. It won’t do to look crazy. These people are his friends for the time being and he’d like to hang on to that as long as he can.

“I get that you’re a silver kind of a guy,” Sam says. They both ignore the strain in his voice. “But the gold looks good on you. Bit of bling, you know? Closest thing to tattoos that side’s gonna get.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, smiling a little. His fingers trace over the ribbons of gold that wend over slats, the way Steve’s had the first time he got Bucky back under his hands. This arm's not quite a weapon, but a gift of goodwill. He'd learned from Steve's touch how to feel about it. “I know it’s, y'know, temporary—I’ll probably get another arm in a few years or something—but it... I’m kinda tempted to get the same thing put on my other arm, you know? Mirror image, or…” He shakes his head. “Unity, or something.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. He smiles, something tragic. “Steve would’ve liked that.”

Bucky nods, too. The deft metal of his prosthetic hand bends easy to his will. He watches his own metal fingers tracing lines down his forearm, as they scan back up again and into his palm. He rests his fingers where Steve always did when he was guiding Bucky’s hand to some part of his body, then slides them back down again. Those lingering touches, wending over sinew and vein.

Then it hits him. Steve won't do that again. 

“Oh,” he says. He’s finally figured out why he likes those ribbons of gold so much. He rubs his prosthetic thumb against his arm, but all he can see is 33 or 101 years of flesh that’s been reaching out for Steve Rogers that has to find new purpose again. 

He’s glad Sam’s here. He looks up, something frantic in him. His fingers still rest against the plane of his arm, afraid to move. He's afraid what'll move. 

“He’s gone," Bucky says. "Isn’t he?” 

From the look on Sam's face, he has to be. 

The room feels empty for the first time in days. Sam’s eyes shine in a particular way and his throat goes to move as though to reply, but in the end he just nods, one hand fixed hard around the handle of his cup like his coffee's the last tie he has to control. 

Bucky nods, too. Inexplicably, a breath leaves him that might’ve been a laugh. His lips purse around the sound and his brow falls hard, emotion choking at the height of his throat. “Shit,” he mutters, and laughs again; it doesn’t sound like a laugh. His fingers trace patterns at the inside of his arm. “I guess I'll have to get it now.” 

He looks up into the space of the room, hoping to feel Steve there. But he’s not sure anymore. He can’t tell where his projections end and reality begins.

“Fuck you,” he rasps out anyway, in case Steve can hear him. “ _Fuck_ you.” 

He imagines the sad smile twitch onto Steve’s face through his stupid beard at the crack in his voice, and maybe that’s enough; maybe that’s all he’s been feeling. Maybe Steve hung back for a week to see them off, or maybe he didn’t. It all feels the same, at the end of the day.

Bucky forces a breath and looks around the room, trying to ignore the way Sam’s crumpled into himself with a fist at his mouth. Bucky clears his throat and brings his coffee to his mouth. “Where's cleanup at?” His voice almost sounds normal, through some miraculous force.

Sam drags a thumb under his eyes, one at a time, and clears his throat too, his body unfolding slowly like a deployed parachute. “Fires are out," he rasps, leaning over his forearms. "Bodies—cleared, for the most part. Still got alien disposal to deal with.”

“Survivors?”

“T’challa’s mostly got ‘em covered.”

Bucky nods and throws the last of his coffee down his throat, and then stands decisively, unwilling to wallow. He feels something square his shoulders he’s not sure was there before, and looks down at Sam as he throws his hair into a knot above his head. He extends a hand to him; pulls Sam to his feet. 

“Gotta fight from the heart,” Bucky murmurs, bracing Sam steady. “That's what Steve always did. Right?”

Sam holds his eye and gets his meaning; he nods. Bucky nods, too. “Got work to do,” Bucky tells him, and claps a hand at Sam’s neck, the way he’s seen Steve do a million times—imparting something, steadying, too. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. 

The room resolves. Sam’s shoulders square with his. 

And from that point on, Bucky knows where Steve’s settled.

  



End file.
